


Mandala On the Sky

by Tammany



Series: The Sussex Downs [9]
Category: Good Omens, Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: An Angel. And a Demon., F/M, Gen, M/M, Sherlock Will a-Wooing Go
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-09-23 06:03:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20335297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: This is what it is. I like it. I like the bits of character study. But it's in large part "moving the plot forward."Have fun, mes enfants.





	Mandala On the Sky

“Nooooo….” Angel’s eyes were wide, her face caught between disbelief and glee. “He never!”

“He did! Look—look! Proof!” Crowley was whooping with it. They hadn’t laughed so hard since the day they’d sat on a park bench with Aziraphale admitting he’d asked for a rubber ducky and made Michael miracle him a towel. He was dancing on the public access path, half in glee—half because the day had warmed up and the sand had grown too hot for his feet. He flailed, pointing more or less at Janine, who stood, hip-shot and arms akimbo, the image of “woman unimpressed.”

“If you’re callin’ me ‘proof’ you’re not half gone in the head—you’re all gone. Last I heard Gibreel wasn’t in the DNA listings, eh? Much less Nan’s sidhe granny. What’s your woman going to see but me?”

“Angel sees plenty,” Crowley insisted. “Look at her. Put your Celestial eyes on, and look at her.”

Angel shook her head. “My dear, there have been so many who tried out a bit of begetting. Even if Gabriel did… He’d hardly be alone in it.”

“So? Think of it, angel. If we ever see his smug ‘I am the Archangel Gabriel” face, we can smack him back with ‘Good to know, and we have met your entirely secret great-great granddaughter.’ Think about it, Angel!”

“Schadenfreude is unappealing.”

Crowley leered in wild glee. “But such fun. I can’t think of a more fitting target, either. Schadenfreude. All the lovely, lovely schadenfreude.”

Angel looked at the young woman, and shrugged, eyes apologetic. “So sorry, my dear. I’d say he isn’t like this all the time—but it would be a lie. He’s always this way, I’m afraid.”

“And you love me this way!

“I certainly do not!” She sniffed. “I love you in spite of being this way—which is entirely different.”

Lestrade, standing nearby observing the most entertaining bit of off-stage panto he’d seen in years, cleared his throat and shot Angel a very skeptical eyebrow. Angel blushed, and shuffled, and sighed…then noticed Crowley’s steady soft-shoe jig—and melted. “Oh, my dear. The sand. Too hot, and me too horrible to even notice. Quick, quick, where are your flipflops?”

Crowley blinked, and frowned, and said, “Wait. What?” Even as he jigged and shifted. “But Angel…”

“No, now, I won’t have you hurting yourself,” she said, clucking and fluttering. “Look, if it will make you happy…” Angel spun with military precision, put on her pink-tinted glasses, narrowed her eyes, huffed, took the glasses off, muttered something under her breath—then put the glasses back on, peering at Janine through the rosy glow. After a long, contemplative moment she pronounced judgement. “Human stock. Minor augmentations. Celestial elements that certainly are not at odds with Gabriel, but nothing certain. Looks like the usual Irish muddle of human-sidhe blending. But there is is, The Good Folk quite like the occasional liaison.” She considered more, then added, thoughtfully. “My dear, I suspect you’ve got enough ethereal attributes to do something useful with them if you wanted. Barding is among the more common choices.”

Janine cocked her head. “Already a writer.”

“Well, then! That’s all right! Very nice to meet you, my dear, and now I must get this silly old serpent someplace he’s not burning his toesie-woesies off.” She gripped her demon firmly by the bicep, and began to drag him up to the main house.

Crowley, considering all other elements, chose to be dragged. It was both safer and had potential. He quite liked being protected and dragged about by his Angel in her stroppier modes. Already intelligent, she became more inventive when she was in a strop…matching Crowley’s delight in improvisation with her own.

“My toes may already be burned,” he whimpered, trying it on for size. He made a sad face, and quavered his lower lip.

She smacked his arm sharply with the back of her hand, and growled. “Behave, you wily thing.”

“Are you thwarting?”

“Always.”

They flounced up onto the upper patio, and from there into the house, bantering all the way.

“Well.” Janine looked amused. “That was not what I expected.”

“You know what they are?” Lestrade was fascinated.

“She’s apparently got the bloodlines for deducing things. Supernatural things,” Sherlock said.

“A bit. Not infallible. The woman in the fluffly madras short set—angel kin?”

“Principality,” Sherlock said, sounding gloomy as a Monday in February. “And, no. I didn’t figure it out for myself.”

“Nifty,” Janine said. Then glanced around. “And you all believe it?”

Sherlock huffed. “Remains to be proven.”

Greg pondered, then said, reluctantly. “I saw Crowley change bodies earlier. He to she. I figure I haven’t got much room for disbelief left: either it’s a Mission Impossible style magic illusion. Or it’s aliens. Or I’m going crazy. Or we’ve got angels in the architecture and the Devil’s come back from Georgia.”

Janine, with a dead sober face, said, “You can hire professionals to deal with that. Good extermination team will clean you right out. Bit of holy water, bit of flaming sulfur.” Then she grinned. “Of you can tag my Nan and my Daadi. Between them they’ll have those two roped into more chores and more tea parties than possible. Right proper Witch Queens those two. They’ll have ‘em hopping, they will. Meanwhile, lad, show me your new digs. You said you needed help.”

She followed him to the cottage, waving goodbye to Lestrade, who loped up the stairs to the patio above.

“Oh, nice,” she said, as they approached. “Rose covered cottage by the sea. Shezza, how do you ever manage to fall into honey pots like this? Baker Street was offensive enough—a skinny bad boy like yourself with an income that’s off as often as it is on? A full-story in the center of London, opposite Regent’s Park? Unfair, my lad. Unfair.”

He looked charming when he was caught between his set routines, she thought, watching him. Arrogant arse Sherlock could be a nuisance. Smart-aleck, drug-beset Shay-shay was worrying at best, and painful to be around at worst: he’d use her in a split second for anything his impulse aimed him at. But shy Sherl, who had clearly never done relationships before—he could still break her heart, even after the mess he’d made of their prior attempt at love.

“Show me your place, love,” she said, softly. “Tell me what you want it to be.”

He walked her in. It was indeed smaller than the house above, with an open kitchen-sitting-room-dining area stretching out onto a roofed, shaded patio beyond, looking out to the sea. The tour he was giving showed that there was a utility room blending pantry space and laundry space fairly equally. There was one small bedroom below, and two above, sharing a small but well-appointed bathroom.

“So—what’s the plan? John and Rosie move in with you again? You might want to add a bedroom ahead—the downstairs is still too far from Papa for now. Unless John’s final woken up and will be sharing your bedroom.”

Sherlock nearly growled, his deep baritone-into-base shaking the air so hard she could almost feel it

“Been there. Done it three times. In my opion we gte better at sharing but worse about…” He ducked his head. “Worse about honesty. John’s…John.”

She hummed under her breath. “Aye. Well. A lot of people are—and if they can get by that way and want to, God bless ‘em. Not for me to say what they want to do wi’ their love love.”

He didn’t look at her. Instead he said, “It was your business. Once.”

She didn’t answer. Instead she went to look out the plate glass sliders that looked over slope and ocean. She cracked the door open to let in the sea air.

“Still could be your business,” he added.

She said nothing, for the longest time, and then said, “Could might stay over sometimes.”

Sherlock nodded, saying nothing. Not pushing. Forcing himself to wait.

“Your brother won’t mind?”

“I think he’ll be relieved. He finds John a bit likely to trigger homicidal fury whenever John goes rushing around to pull in the latest red herring.”

“And me? Will he mind the occasional visit from me?”

“He’ll live,” Sherlock said, then added, with a sudden flash of passion, “And if he doesn’t I’ll get my own place just up the way and bring you in regardless.”

“Ooooh. Poor Mycroft. Worse than Celestials—the brother who won’t grow up.”

He stood behind her, and together they looked at their reflections in the plate glass. He said, softly, “I let you see me high—and sober,” he went on.

“Mmmmm. But you lied to me, Shezza. And mainly you loved the drama of it all.”

“I…let you make fun of me. In public.”

“See above, re: melodrama. You’re a drama queen, love.”

“I asked you down here—in front of everyone.”

She was not stupid. She heard the implied, “I broke down and asked you, first. I came crawling…”

“A point. A palpable point, Shezz. But—you hurt me. Hurt me wicked-bad.”

“I let you see my knobby knees and hairy shins, Jannie.”

She considered. That was a hard one. “Tempting,” she whispered, and leaned back into his shoulder. She felt his arm slip around her waist, and his hand fan over her deep, wide hip.

But she hadn’t agreed yet.

“You’re a wicked fellow, you are.” She sighed. “But—you do have an angel and a demon right next door. That’s got its perks.”

“Um. Yes?” He was busy nuzzling her hair, already.

“Yes,” she said, and chuckled. She tipped her head out to the view beyond. “Yeah. Because, you know what? They look outstanding when they fly together. Proper wizard.”

Sherlock looked up—and gasped. “Oh,” he said…and was so enthralled he never even noticed she’d woven her fingers into his own fanned over her hip.”

“They’re real,” he said, in wonder.

“Y’think?” She was amused.

“I think I may have a lot to learn,” he murmured, eyes still glued to the sky, where white wings and black circled each other, a living mandala that erased the last of his doubts.


End file.
